Compromising Positions. Kate Hoffmann
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town until it was tucked safely in the museum’s trailer.
But there were some roadblocks along the way. For one thing, she didn’t know anything about her opponent. She’d be much more effective against him if she learned something of his motivations. Millhaven was a small town. Certainly someone in town would be willing to talk about Sam Blackstone.
He wanted that bed as much as she did, maybe even more. Unfortunately he wasn’t aware of just how stubborn and single-minded Amelia Gardner Sheffield could be.
Amelia opened the door of the Lexus and got in behind the wheel. She’d made the three-hour drive to Millhaven from Boston that morning and had had the presence of mind to pack an overnight bag in case the weather or the acquisition suddenly went bad.
But a bag was only part of the equation; she’d need to find someplace close to spend the night. Millhaven was a quaint little village set in the beauty of the Hudson Valley. There had to be a motel somewhere in town.
As she drove away from the Farnsworth house, she saw a signpost and slowed to read it. It listed three restaurants and one inn.
“The Blackstone Inn.” She remembered the bed’s provenance mentioning the Blackstone Inn, but it had never occurred to her that the inn would still be in existence. Could Sam Blackstone be connected to the Blackstone Inn? She smiled to herself. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
The road followed the river and she found the inn about a half mile from the edge of town, set high on a bluff overlooking the Hudson. As Amelia drove up to the front door, she marveled at the view. It was an idyllic spot and more than romantic.
“‘Established 1769,’” she read on the sign. Her gaze dropped to a scroll along the bottom of the sign with the words George Washington slept here.
“No wonder he wants the bed back,” she murmured.
The central structure was made of a type of red brick common throughout the area. The inn was three stories high, the façade featuring three Federal columns flanking each side of the front door and supporting a third-story gallery. It looked as though the two wings on either side of the central structure had been added at a later date, as the bricks were a slightly different color. Black shutters adorned the first-story windows, while window boxes filled with winter greenery marked each second-story window.
Amelia loved it on sight. She quickly got out of the SUV, anxious to see if the interior was as meticulously preserved as the exterior. She admired people who worked so hard to protect historical buildings. Their work was as important as the work she and the rest of the staff did at the Mapother.
Amelia stepped through the front door into a wide Colonial keeping room. On one side a hearth dominated the entire wall, with period chairs and sofas arranged neatly in front of the fire. On the other side a wood-paneled bar ran the depth of the room, the bottles and glassware sparkling beneath the flickering light of four kerosene lamps.
She walked to the front desk and rang the bell that sat on the scarred wooden counter. A few seconds later a young woman emerged from behind a door. There was something very familiar about her pale blue eyes and dark hair. She smiled and Amelia had the uneasy feeling that they’d met before.
“Good afternoon,” the other woman said with a warm smile. “May I help—”
“You will not believe what is going on down at Abigail’s place.” A familiar voice filled the room and Amelia’s spine stiffened. “That crazy old lady promised the bed to someone else. Some uptight, snooty museum lady from Boston. Amelia Sheffield. La-di-da. Man, what a piece of work.”
Amelia slowly turned and faced him. “Hello again.”
The woman behind the desk cleared her throat. “This is my brother, Sam Blackstone.” She laughed softly. “And I’d bet you’re Amelia Sheffield.”
Amelia held out her hand to Sam. “Hello. Piece. Piece of Work. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blackstone.”
He at least had the grace to show some embarrassment. His face flushed beneath his deep tan and scruffy beard. He really wasn’t the type she was usually attracted to but there was something about him that piqued her curiosity.
Maybe it was the fact that he seemed so intent on obtaining a historical piece of furniture that he’d be rude to a complete stranger to get it. It was exactly the way she felt about important furniture: obsessed.
“So, you own this place?” she asked.
“My sister and I do,” he said, nodding to the woman standing at the desk. “My sister, Sarah Blackstone.”
Amelia turned and offered Sarah her hand. “Amelia Sheffield. Mapother Museum of Decorative Arts. Boston.”
Sarah shook her hand, then stepped out from behind the counter. “I’m just going to leave your check-in to Sam. He’ll get you a room. Dinner is at six. There’s a menu in your room. Just call down with your choices before five.”
“Sarah is a great cook,” Sam said.
Amelia regarded Sam suspiciously. “You don’t get anywhere near the food, do you?”
“Do you think I’m going to spit in it?” he asked.
“No, of course not. I was more worried about poison.”
Sarah laughed again as she headed toward the kitchen. Sam waited until the door swung shut behind her, then turned and stepped behind the front desk. “You’d like to spend the night?”
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. “Do you have a problem with me taking a room?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Everyone is welcome here.”
“Are you busy?”
“We have just six guests tonight, so we can give you our full attention.”
“Good,” she said. Amelia pulled her wallet from her purse and grabbed her business credit card, placing it on the counter between them. “I’d like to see the inn and choose a room for myself. Would you give me a tour?”
He glanced up, as if surprised by her request. “Sure. Why don’t we leave your bag here? The rooms in the oldest part of the inn are smaller, but many of them contain original Federal furnishings.”
“That sounds perfect,” Amelia said.
He followed her up the stairs and she couldn’t help but wonder what he was looking at as they climbed to the second story. All the doors were open and she strolled down the narrow hall, peeking inside each room.
The drapery and upholstery fabrics were a bit timeworn and faded, but very well chosen. Beautiful Federal-era beds dominated each room, the canopies reaching the high ceilings. Comfortable wing chairs sat in front of the small fireplaces and each room contained a small writing desk and a pair of bedside tables with oil lamps.
“We have electric lamps,” he said, “but a lot of our guests enjoy the true Colonial experience. I can switch the lamps out if you like.”
“No, I love antique lamps.” When they reached the corner room at the end of the hall, Amelia paused before entering the room. “This is nice.”
“There are shared bathrooms in this part of the inn,” he said. “The new rooms are en suite.”
“The shared bath is fine,” Amelia said. “I’m only here for a night.” She walked into the room and nodded. “Yes, I’ll stay here.”
“Funny,” Sam said. “This is the George Washington bedroom. The bed that you want to steal used to be in this room. George Washington slept right here.”
Sam smiled—the first true smile he’d given her—and it was dazzling. Her pulse began to beat faster and she felt a bit light-headed.
“I’ll just go get your bag,” he said and left the room.
Once the door shut behind him Amelia